


Closer to a Prayer

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Dancing, First Time, Hand Jobs, Heavy Angst, M/M, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, Post-Canon, Resurrected Tony Stark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-02-23 05:08:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23972794
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “I think I’m dying.”Peter stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, blinking. It feels weird to say it out loud.In which Peter's powers turn against him, Mr. Stark is back and suddenly acting kind of weird (and by weird he means flirtatious), and it’s all a lot to handle at once.
Relationships: Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Comments: 93
Kudos: 756
Collections: Id Pro Quo 2020, Peter Parker





	Closer to a Prayer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [elpollodiablo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/elpollodiablo/gifts).



> Written mostly for the "MCU Peter Parker's powers are killing him" freeform, but tossing some others into the mix in bits and pieces. I had a lot of fun with this. I hope you do, too.

“I think I’m dying.”

Peter stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, blinking. It feels weird to say it out loud. Concrete. As if the surreptitious blood tests and hours spent picking a very confused biology professor’s brain hadn’t been real, but the words are.

“Yep,” he repeats, watching the way his mouth forms around the word. His lips are really dry; always are, these days, more than can be blamed on the Boston winter. “Turns out the human body isn’t supposed to be able to stop a bus with its bare hands. It doesn’t hold up under the stress long term. I’m eating myself from the inside out.”

His reflection doesn’t have any comment, unless you count the bags under his eyes screaming that something isn’t right; deep purple blotches so severe his RA stopped him in the hall last week to give him a pamphlet about the school’s mental health services.

“Finals aren’t worth it,” she said, earnest. She’s nice like that; actually committed to the job, not just in it for the paycheck. Peter smiled and took the pamphlet because he didn’t want to hurt her feelings. Besides, telling her he doesn’t give a crap about finals right now probably would’ve just resulted in more pamphlets.

This problem is above an RA’s pay grade, but he should tell _someone_ , now that he’s admitting it to himself. That would be the logical next step. He straightens his back, trying to make his expression serious, solemn but not scared: a practice run.

“May, I think—”

No, definitely not. He can already see her face, horrified and pale, like after Thanos, and Ben. He can’t do that to her. 

He sighs and tries again.

“Ned, I think I’m dying.”

The onslaught of words from his best friend makes his head spin, and that’s just in his imagination. Besides, no way Ned doesn’t let it slip, and then May would know and it’d be back to square one. He could tell MJ, but that seems like a lot to put on someone you broke up with less than six months ago.

He grips the sink tighter. He knows who he wants to tell. He’s one of the few people who’d probably be able to help, honestly. That would be Peter’s excuse: _I didn’t know who else to ask_. And Mr. Stark would believe the reasoning. He’d drop everything, maybe even come live in Boston until they got it figured out. And Peter would get to bask in his attention, his presence, the fact of his existence—

The sink makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like cracking, jolting Peter back to reality. He drops his hands, quickly runs his fingers through his hair, then bolts out of the bathroom before someone can catch him ripping apart appliances and muttering about dying .

He ditches the idea of telling Mr. Stark. He’s been back for less than two months. As far as Peter knows, he’s still readjusting to life, spending every second he can with Pepper and Morgan, generally enjoying the peace and relaxation he earned after saving the fucking universe. His resurrection remains a mystery, a “cosmic fluke” as Strange put it, but whatever forces returned him to Earth, Peter feels confident they didn’t do it so he could be thrown right back into stress on Peter’s account. He doesn’t deserve that.

Strange though—now that’s an idea.

***

Over the next week, he tries to call Strange, but each time he picks up the phone his grip gets slippery and static buzzes in his ears.

After his third failed attempt, Peter decides it makes more sense to wait until he’s back in New York over break, anyway. It’s only a couple more weeks, and Strange will probably want to do an in-person exam or something. And it’s not like he’s dying _immediately_. Based on Peter’s admittedly shaky grasp on complex biology and a whole lot of guesswork, this thing is progressing pretty slowly. He still has enough energy to go patrolling a few times a week, picking his way through the streets of downtown Boston so Spider-Man isn’t immediately associated with the MIT area. It’s not urgent, is what he’s saying.

(Could Strange portal Peter to and from the city if necessary? Yes. Is Peter going to look too hard at the lies he’s telling himself? Obviously not.)

***

It’s cold in Boston. A lot colder than Peter expected; even the puffed down jacket May insisted on spending too much on doesn’t keep the chill from creeping under his skin and settling in his hands and toes. He’s forced to start wearing his suit under his clothing to take advantage of the heater.

“Is that Spider-Man long underwear?” a guy with unnerving frat-bro energy asks one day in chemistry lab, when Peter’s shirt hitches up as he’s working. “Very cool.”

He sounds completely sincere, like he really does think Spider-Man long underwear is a decent fashion statement. There’s a reason Peter decided to abandon the friendly neighborhood gig to come up here—a reason beyond running away from the ghost of a man who’s not even dead anymore. He’d probably make a lot of friends if he weren’t…preoccupied.

But he is, so he just flashes the guy a smile and tugs his shirt down before he gets a close look.

***

In the last week before finals, he buys an extra thermal blanket, buries himself in his bed, and barely leaves his room. No patrols, living on energy bars and delivery pizza. It’s a good thing he has a single, thanks to a very generous September Foundation grant he knows is really his inheritance in disguise—except he’s not really an inheritor anymore, is he? If he had a roommate, they’d probably be siccing Ms. Overly Concerned RA on him.

He is not, for the record, actually stupid enough to think this is all because of the Boston winter. Clearly, something is up with his thermal regulation, and he should definitely call Strange. He understands that. But he doesn’t. Because he has finals. Because he’s fine, really, studying out of a pile of blankets. Because—because.

“You’ve been to space,” he tells the distorted reflection of himself he catches in his bedroom window. “You already died. You don’t get to be scared.”

He still doesn’t call Strange.

***

He makes it through finals, for a certain value of “makes it through.” He shows up. He answers the questions, probably wrong. He watches everyone else melt down around him, and can’t bring himself to care. A girl he saw puking her guts out at a Halloween party a month and a half ago—ruining her Black Widow costume which, disrespectful, honestly—literally breaks into tears in the middle of the dorm because her printer isn’t working. He lets her use his; it makes him twenty minutes late to his Orgo final, but he figures she needs it more than he does.

At some point, he’s going to have to explain this to someone. He’s pretty sure the September Foundation grant has a grade point requirement attached. Something ridiculously low that nobody was worried about him meeting, a technicality to make it look legit. But—maybe not low enough. If he loses the scholarship, he’ll have to drop out, and then there will be no hiding it from May. That thought is enough to actually make him start trying again with two finals to go. It’s exhausting, brain running on empty, as if every inch of him has been sapped of energy.

Three days before the semester is over, he gets a text from Mr. Stark.

_How’s my favorite college genius? Kicking intellectual ass, I hope?_

And then: _Check your email._

The email turns out to be an invitation to a swanky Stark Industries holiday party that weekend, along with the note, _Happy has already invited Aunt Hottie, so I think you have to come_.

Peter smiles at the screen, feeling warm for the first time in weeks. Not that fancy parties are his idea of a good time, especially not right now, but if Mr. Stark is out and about then he must be doing well post-resurrection, and that _does_ make Peter happy. Plus, he wants Peter there, which makes him even happier.

 _I’ll see you there_ , he texts back.

He ignores the question about how he’s doing, and Mr. Stark’s only response is a thumbs up.

***

He opts for a bus home rather than shelling out for Amtrak. It’s packed full of worn-out college students and adds an extra two hours to the trip, creeping through Manhattan traffic to get to its East Side drop off, where Peter is left stranded with two large duffels and no easy way to get to the subway.

“You look exhausted!” May exclaims when he finally makes it home. She strangles him in an enthusiastic hug before he has time to put the bags down.

“I’m fine,” he insists, muffled, into her shoulder.

She leans back and grabs his face in a vice-grip, mouth drawing into a sharp line, the way she used to get when he would insist he wanted to go to school with a fever. “Peter Benjamin Parker, no you are not. Next time, pay for the train, you’ve earned it.”

“Okay, okay.” He smiles; it isn’t fake, exactly, but it’s not the smile she wants it to be. Not pleasure at her support, but relief his plan worked. For now. He’s not sure how long he can blame wane and waxy skin on a long semester and a longer bus ride, but at least their first night back can be nice. He can give her that. He stretches the smile wider. “So, do you have dinner for your favorite nephew, or what?”

***

That night, he toys with his phone. He’s back in the city, which means his excuses for not calling Strange are wearing thin. But May has big plans for tomorrow—last minute Christmas shopping and decorations and dinner at their favorite Thai place. And the day after that is Mr. Stark’s party. Ned and MJ are back next week; it’ll be easier to explain an absence on hanging out with them. It can wait.

He flicks idly through his texts as he works on justifying his cowardice, stopping when he lands on Mr. Stark’s name. His finger hovers over the message chain before clicking in. It’s only 11 p.m., he’s probably still up.

 _Guess who’s back in the city?_ Peter writes, but then immediately deletes it. Mr. Stark isn’t his friend, not like that. Maybe they were getting close, before Thanos ripped a hole in the center of their lives, but that was years ago, for either of them.

Yeah, _Peter_ still feels their connection like a physical tug in his chest every time he thinks about a gleeful grin and warm eyes sparkling with delight. But in the months since Mr. Stark returned, they’ve only seen each other once, at a welcome back dinner where they barely talked. Mr. Stark had caught his gaze a few times, even winked at him, a quiet affirmation that he does still care, but that was it. Mr. Stark spent five years without Peter; five years building a family, saving the universe. A family he’s busy spending time with, a universe he’s settling back into. Peter isn’t part of any of that.

 _Looking forward to the party, thanks again for inviting me_ , he writes instead. Then he immediately closes the message and starts scrolling through Instagram, trying very hard to pretend he’s not humming with nerves—an even more ineffective attempt at lying to himself than his excuses for not calling Strange. Why is he doing this? What does he expect? Is a dashed off _you’re welcome_ really going to make his night better?

Probably not, but he still wants it with a desperate, pathetic kind of longing that rings familiar; a nostalgic tune from before he turned to dust. He thought he’d successfully packed this feeling away, buried it along with the man, but sitting here in his childhood bedroom, knowing Tony Stark is somewhere in this city with warm skin and blood pumping through his veins, Peter’s need cuts through his chest as fresh as when he was sixteen.

After twenty minutes and no reply, he puts his phone down, covers his face with a pillow, and screams.

***

He doesn’t wake up until noon, the comfort of being home overriding the anxiety that usually has him up and pacing before seven. The sleep should make him feel better, but instead he’s lethargic and sore as he drags himself out of bed. He took a shower last night, but he still feels sticky, as if the grime of the bus didn’t fully wash off. Or maybe he’s running a fever. He’s been doing that a lot lately.

He checks his phone. Still no response. Figures.

Dejected and already tired of today, he stumbles to the bathroom, where he does his best to make himself presentable, scrubbing his face with cold water and running his fingers uselessly through tangled hair. He’s allowed it to grow long out of sheer not caring enough to get it cut; his bangs keep falling into his face. May’s going to comment on that, but maybe it will distract her from the bags under his eyes that haven’t gone anywhere despite over twelve hours of rest.

When he emerges, May is at the stove, a carton of eggs next to her. That’s going to end well.

“I thought I heard you moving around!” she says, throwing him a smile over her shoulder. “Don’t think I’m going to let you sleep in like that all break. That was a one-time deal.”

“Got it. You really don’t have to make—” Peter’s thought is cut short when he spots a large package sitting on the kitchen table. It’s wrapped in plain gold paper that gives the impression of being expensive. “What’s this?”

“That came for you this morning. There—fuck!” Peter glances over to see May trying to scoop an eggshell out of the pan. She waves the spatula in his direction. “There’s a card.”

There is, tucked under the package: elegant white card stock with a spindly gold web splashed across the front. There’s exactly one person he knows who would send something like that. He flips the card open to find Mr. Stark’s blocky handwriting. Yep.

_You’re always invited, kid. New York’s not the same without Spider-Man. See you soon — TS_

“Sure, respond to my text with a present, that’s normal,” Peter whispers, but he can feel a grin breaking across his face, wide and goofy and not quite controllable. Fortunately, May’s still wrestling with the egg situation, so she doesn’t notice. Before—after she’d gotten over the _you’re Spider-Man??_ thing, and the _Tony Stark offered you a spot on the_ what _and the_ when _and the_ are you kidding me _,_ _Peter_ _??_ thing—she used to tease Peter about what she deemed his “little crush.” It had been annoying, then; he wouldn’t be able to stand it now. He’s not sure what he feels, exactly, but he knows he died in Mr. Stark’s arms and watched the light fade from his eyes in return, knows he still dreams about both and wakes up drenched in sweat, throat tight from crying.

Whatever he feels, he’s not up for being teased about it. 

He unwraps the package, carefully unfolding the paper without ripping it so they can keep it for future use. Under the wrapping is a nondescript box. In side that is a suit. A really, really nice suit. Not that Peter knows much about suits, but this definitely seems really nice; dark grey, with a deep red shirt and flashy gold tie adorned with red snowflakes.

Wow. Okay. So maybe Mr. Stark had been thinking about him after all.

***

 _Seriously?_ he texts later, as May is busy picking through the Union Square holiday market for something to send her cousin in Arizona, the one who’s so impossible to please Peter’s not really sure why she bothers trying. _Red and gold? Real subtle, Mr. Stark._

This time, the reply is almost instant. _What? It’s a holiday party. Those are holiday colors._

_Suuuure. No ego here at all._

He actually kind of likes the idea of wearing Mr. Stark’s colors. It feels…personal. But that doesn’t mean he can’t tease. Teasing feels good, like they’re erasing the last two and a half years, or last seven and a half, or whatever you want to call it. Back to normal. _He_ almost feels normal, so caught up in the messages that he can ignore how cold it is in the outdoor market.

 _You’ve changed_ , Mr. Stark writes back. _You used to be so nice to me. What happened?_

Peter gasps, puff of air forming a cloud in front of his face. He knows it’s a joke, but—it’s a lot. Mr. Stark apparently realizes, too; before Peter can begin to think of a response, he adds, _Sorry, I didn’t mean that._

Right. So much for back to normal. Peter shivers.

 _I’m still nice_ , he writes. _Thank you so much for the suit, Mr. Stark. It was very kind._

He can practically feel the eye roll in the response: _Don’t be a suck-up, kid._

 _Very kind, and only a little egotistical_ , he corrects.

 _Better_. _See you tomorrow._

Peter shivers again, pocketing the phone and wrapping his scarf around his face. The idea of seeing Mr. Stark lights a flickering warmth in his chest; too bad it doesn’t extend through his whole body. He could use it.

***

Stark Industries has apparently relocated to a sleek new hi-rise in Hell’s Kitchen, which has been revitalized for what feels like the twentieth time in Peter’s life, the Battle of New York and then the Blip and the post-Blip leaving scars across the city that are only now healing. There was a time Peter would’ve been completely intimidated by the soaring lobby, the milling corporate types and, especially, the little cluster of tech bros huddled around a Foosball table. He can almost conjure up the feeling, like when he first saw the Avengers compound, or was first invited to Mr. Stark’s SI lab: a swooping in his stomach, heart pattering against his chest.

Almost, but not quite. It’s all a whole lot less intimidating now that he’s been to Europe and, you know, space. 

“Do I look okay?” May asks, not for the first time. Unlike Peter, she hasn’t been to space, and even with all her fundraising work this party is a bit out of her normal comfort zone. Not that he’s worried about her: she looks great, of course, and he’s pretty sure that’s not just his bias talking. She’ll have CEOs eating out of her hand and writing checks for her latest charity efforts by the end of the night.

“You look amazing,” he assures her.

“You’re sweet. You, too. Though—” She reaches out, adjusting his tie and brushing her fingers through his hair with a frown. He was right, she thinks he needs a haircut. “Maybe I should let you sleep in more.”

“Thanks,” he says sarcastically. He adjusts the tie again, which probably ruins whatever she fixed. “Shall we?”

She sticks out her arm. “We shall.”

Caterers break up the sea of suits and long dresses, weaving elegantly through the crowd carrying plates of food too complicated to be appealing. Or maybe that’s the nausea talking. May keeps grabbing things and offering him bites, expression bordering on incredulous when he says no to a lamb slider situation.

“I’m thirsty,” he lies. “I’m going to get a drink. Want anything?”

Fortunately, May has spotted Happy and is busy waving him over, which gives Peter an excuse to slip away without committing to coming back. He makes a beeline for the bar, less because he needs the drink than because he’s not really sure what else to do. The bartender doesn’t look at him twice when he tries to order a glass of wine, and, well, he knows it’s irresponsible but—fuck it. Maybe he’s earned a little irresponsibility. 

“Mr. Parker, I am shocked and appalled. I provide a full open bar, and you settle on _wine_?”

Peter spins on the spot, stomach dropping. There he is: Tony Stark, gazing down at him, warm smile lighting up his face all the way to his eyes, which crinkle with amusement. He’s in a tux, but his bow tie is the same gold and red pattern as Peter’s tie. Which is way too much to process, so he ignores it.

“Hi!” he says, a beat too late. He was definitely staring. Noticeably. But the crinkle in Mr. Stark’s eyes just gets deeper. He reaches forward, tugging the wine out of Peter’s hand.

“Two whiskies,” he tells the bartender. “The good stuff. You know the one.”

Peter doesn’t really like whiskey, but he’s not going to argue. Not when Tony Stark is there, alive, smiling, focused entirely on Peter in what feels like the first time in years.

“Hi,” Peter says again, which is completely lame. What happened to his ability to form words? Is this a new symptom?

“Nice suit,” Mr. Stark comments, eyes dragging up and down his body. “You look good in red and gold.”

Peter wishes he could blame the flush he can feel creeping up his face on whatever’s wrong with him, but he knows better. “I—yeah. Thanks. For the suit, I mean. And the compliment.” He shifts, adjusting the tie again. It must be such a mess at this point. “Um. Hi.”

Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows. “Did someone put you on repeat, kid? Relax. It’s just me.” As he says it, he reaches by Peter, arm brushing his side as he picks up the two glasses that have appeared at miraculous speed. “Here. If you’re going to make my company responsible for plying a minor with alcohol, you’re getting the good stuff.”

“Okay.” Peter clutches the glass so tightly he knows he risks shattering it. Why is he so nervous all of a sudden? It wasn’t like this last time he saw Mr. Stark, but last time he’d been in such shock he didn’t have much room for any emotion other than _oh my god_ shouted on loop in his head. Which is still kind of how he feels, but with a whole lot of other stuff layered on top. “Thanks.”

“Wow.” Mr. Stark raises his glass. “To standing here in front of each other. And not being weird about it, I hope.”

Peter laughs faintly, clinking the edge of his glass against Mr. Stark’s before taking a deep gulp. Too deep—he has to hold back a cough.

Mr. Stark pats his shoulder. “Slow down there, Champ. This isn’t a dorm party, you’re supposed to savor it.”

“Sorry,” Peter gasps. He’s being ridiculous. This is Mr. Stark. _His_ Mr. Stark, whatever that means. He can be cool. “I’ll stop being weird. It’s just really, really nice to see you.”

Mr. Stark’s hand drifts to Peter’s elbow, landing there lightly. “Right back at you, kid,” he says, with a sincerity that Peter feels down to his toes. “Listen, I’ve got to wine and dine some people. The Board’s still having some adjustment issues with my…existing.” He leans in, conspiratorial. “Between you and me, I think they think things were easier without me. But you’re the person I want to see, so stick around. I’ll find you.”

And with that, he’s gone, flitting away into the crowd, greeting some old dude with a forced smile that looks nothing like the one he’d been wearing for Peter.

Right. Okay. More people are pouring into the party, the general ambiance getting louder, voices shrill as guests fight to be heard over the overlapping din of conversation and music and glasses clinking together. May’s busy chatting with Happy and some couple who look rich and interested, like they might want to give to whatever cause she’s talking up.

Peter finishes his drink in a hurry, then asks for another. He needs to get out of here before his headache gets worse.

***

He finds something resembling quiet in a lounge one floor up, where there’s an inviting leather couch. The lounge has a balcony overlooking the party so he can still hear everything, but up here the roar of voices blends into an almost pleasant wave of white noise. He’s not sure if he’s supposed to be here, but no one stopped him from coming up, and there are Christmas wreaths around, so he figures it’s better than sneaking into an office or something.

He sips his second whiskey, feeling the liquid burn through him; nice, when he’s been so cold, even if it also makes his brain foggy. He doesn’t drink much, and hasn’t drunk at all since everything started going sideways. Maybe that’s why it’s so strong, melting through his limbs faster than he remembers. It’s good, almost, or maybe a bit too much, leaving the world on edge. Yeah, maybe he drank that a bit too fast, actually, now that he thinks about it.

He leans back, sinking into the leather, and closes his eyes, the sounds of the distant party washing over him. That’s better. That’s a lot better.

***

He’s startled awake by a hand sweeping his bangs away from his face.

“There you are.” It’s Mr. Stark, sitting beside him on the couch. His hand settles on Peter’s shoulder, heavy, as warm as his smile. “How many drinks did you _have_?”

Peter glances at his empty glass, which sits precariously on the cushion next to him. He quickly moves it to the ground. “Just two. Sorry. I guess I’m still in recovery from the semester?”

Mr. Stark looks skeptical, but he doesn’t push. Instead, his grin turns a little mischievous. “Not a good enough excuse to be asleep at my party. So let’s wake you up.” He springs to his feet, extending his hand. “Do you dance, Mr. Parker?”

Peter blinks at the hand hovering in front of his face. Maybe it’s because he’s still half asleep, but this doesn’t make sense. “Not really?”

“Give it a try?”

Mr. Stark jerks his fingers in on themselves a few times, encouraging Peter to take his hand. And what’s he going to do, _not_ lace their fingers together when offered the chance? Mr. Stark’s hand is warm as he hauls Peter to his feet; so is his other one when it lands at his waist, burning through the layers of suit. So warm Peter wants to sink against him, steal his heat.

“You did go to prom, right?” Mr. Stark prods. “Other hand on my shoulder, come on.”

Peter does it without thinking; because he’s a bit drunk, or maybe because following Mr. Stark’s instructions is still automatic, a habit ingrained in his DNA from hours in the lab. “What…what are we doing?” he manages to ask as Mr. Stark starts to rotate them slowly, in time to the music drifting up from the party.

“You were still being weird,” Mr. Stark says, as if that’s an answer.

“I was being weird, so you decided to…make it weirder?”

“Yes, exactly. Shock to the system. Like a reset.” He observes their clutched hands and shifts the grip. “Is it working?”

Peter can feel a laugh bubbling up in his gut, an itchy, incredulous thing. It’s definitely still weird, but at least his mind is almost half off his problems. “Kinda?”

“We can do better than that.” Mr. Stark shoves him away, guiding him in a twirl; Peter responds without needing to think, spinning and returning to his arms, smooth. They did always work well together, anticipating moves without words. Usually there was more punching involved. “There was a time you would’ve tripped all over yourself to dance with me.”

“I…” Peter stops moving, flush of goosebumps running up his spine. “What?”

“You had a crush,” Mr. Stark says with a smirk and a shrug, as if it’s no big deal, a joke they’re both in on. “It was cute.”

“You…knew about that?” This is one-hundred percent not where he was expecting any of this to go. Like, at all. On the plus side, whatever is killing him is about to be beat to the punch by embarrassment.

“Did you think you were subtle?” Mr. Stark raises his eyebrows. “Have you met yourself, Pete?”

Peter groans and pitches forward, planting his forehead on Mr. Stark’s shoulder. Hiding his face so Mr. Stark can’t see him blush, or maybe just an excuse to chase the warmth. “Oh my god.”

To his surprise, Mr. Stark drops his grip, bringing his hand to Peter’s hair instead. The other arm wraps tighter around his waist, drawing him closer, until suddenly they aren’t dancing, they’re hugging: long, tight, Peter’s senses reduced to the heat of another body near his, the steady rise and fall of Mr. Stark’s chest. He wraps his arms around the wide, firm body and breathes him in.

“I really missed you,” he whispers into his neck. “I missed you so much.”

“Ditto, kid. I missed you for five years.”

Mr. Stark starts moving again, swaying in rhythm, like slow dancing. Peter clings to him, eyes closed, head resting against the firm slope of his shoulder. It feels good.

“So, how do you like college?” Mr. Stark eventually asks.

Peter answers, slipping into murmured patter he’s already perfected with May: anecdotes about dorm life and wacky professors, a sketch of a semester that wasn’t weighed down by the dawning realization of his own doom. Mr. Stark is a good audience, laughing at the right places in the stories, asking questions about classes that are actually interesting to answer. And he doesn’t let go of Peter the whole time, leading them in gentle circles, fingers carding through his hair and then down, clutching his neck, letting him keep his head on his shoulder.

It’s very, very weird, and very, very nice, and Peter doesn’t care why it’s happening. Maybe it’s a post-resurrection thing; he had a little bit of that, the first few months back, wanting to touch everything to make sure it was real. Yeah, that makes sense. It’s nice that he’s something Mr. Stark wants to make sure is really here.

“I should probably get back to the party before someone notices I’m missing,” Mr. Stark finally says, as Peter is running out of stories. He steps away, breaking the moment. Moments. That was more than one moment. He smiles, eyes soft. “But I want to see more of you. Think Aunt Hottie would let me steal you for a few days? The new upstate compound is actually quite nice.”

Peter swallows, standing back, trying to seem like whatever the fuck just happened hasn’t left him off balance. He feels tilted, like his entire gravitational axis has been realigned to Mr. Stark. Or maybe he’s just drunk. “Probably. I’d really like that.”

“Great!” Mr. Stark raises his wrist, tapping at his watch, suddenly all business. “I have Morgan through next weekend, but what about after that? I’ll be all yours.”

“Yeah, that should work…” Peter’s brain catches up with what he just heard. “Wait, where will Morgan be?”

“With her mom.”

“Um.” Wow. What? “Does that mean—” No, nope. Shut up, Peter. Just because they danced or whatever the hell that was doesn’t mean he gets to ask questions like that. “Sorry, that’s inappropriate, you don’t have to tell me.”

“No, it’s okay.” But Mr. Stark’s eyes are now firmly not moving from his watch, even though he’s not typing anymore. “She moved on, while I was gone.”

Peter tries to remember if he saw any gossip about that online, but he knows he didn’t. He would’ve taken note. Well, it’s not surprising Pepper Potts managed to keep the details of her personal life private from even the most prying of eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“You apologize a lot, you know that?” Mr. Stark shakes himself, raising his head with a smile that seems a lot more forced than the one he was wearing before they went down this particular path. “Anyway, it’s fine. It is what it is.”

He doesn’t look like he means it, but Peter feels like he’s pressed his luck far enough. “That’s very…zen?” he offers, unsure.

“Oh, very. I’m handling it like a champ. Rhodey’s only had to hide my liquor collection twice.”

Under the joking tone Peter picks up a strain that makes him think maybe there’s more truth to that than Mr. Stark means to let on.

“Mr. Stark…” he starts, but then stops, because this feels out of his league. He is not qualified to comment.

Mr. Stark steps back, rubbing at his right shoulder. “Sorry. I shouldn’t be laying that on you. Not very mentorly.”

It’s probably a bad idea to point out none of this has been very _mentorly_ , right? Right. “It’s okay. I’m not a kid anymore.”

“I noticed.” Mr. Stark’s eyes track down Peter’s body, then up again, settling around his throat. “It’s kind of hard to miss,” he adds, softly, before reaching forward, adjusting Peter’s tie with a quick tug and a bit of smoothing. His fingers skim beneath Peter’s chin as he draws away. “So, I’ll see you next week?”

Peter nods, mouth suddenly dry, head spinning again. At this point, he’s fairly positive Mr. Stark is the one acting weird. “Next week, yeah. Definitely.”

“Great,” Mr. Stark says with a wink, adjusting his own bow tie, suddenly bright, suave, the version of himself that will cut easily through the party, the most charming person there. “It’s a date.”

***

Christmas comes and goes in a blur, spent with May and Ned’s family. There are enough Leeds cousins stuffed into one small house that Peter gets away with mostly sitting back and watching, smiling and repeating the same few lines about how yes, MIT is good, but yes, totally, Boston winters are terrible, Ned is so lucky he gets eternal summer in California.

“It’s not actually _summer_ ,” Ned comments to Peter over pecan pie. “They all think Stanford is like LA, but it’s been kind of cold. I’ve really had to up my sweater game.”

Peter gives him what he hopes is a scathing look. “Compared to Boston, it’s summer.”

“Is that why you look sick? Lack of sun?”

Peter nearly chokes on his pie. “Um, rude, Ned.”

“Not rude, honest. I learned from MJ.”

Ned is distracted by a cousin looking for Lego help before he has a chance to pry further, but Peter takes the brief brush with harsh truths as a sign he can’t keep pushing this thing under the rug forever.

The next day, he finally texts Strange.

***

“It definitely isn’t good,” Doctor Strange concludes after an hour of poking and prodding and waving mystical hands at Peter. “Your DNA was altered by the bite, but now the change is being rejected. You’re being ripped apart on a cellular level. If you don’t find a way to stabilize it soon, I’m afraid you may not survive the rejection. Your powers certainly will not.”

Great. An hour to be told what he already knew. Peter should be grateful; at least someone with a medical degree has confirmed his haphazard conclusions. Still, he’d kind of been hoping for more than _it definitely isn’t good_. “Can you help? You were an actual doctor, right?”

For a moment, Doctor Strange’s face slips from its usual impenetrable mask, and Peter almost thinks he looks sad. “I was a surgeon; this is rather outside of my area of expertise. I can look into magical solutions, but you should really be talking to a scientist. Doesn’t Tony have ideas?”

“I haven’t told him.” That’s met with an arched eyebrow, perfectly placed to convey skepticism and surprise. “He just came back!” Peter defends. “I don’t want to bother him.”

“Unwise,” Strange says. His tone doesn’t really change, but it somehow manages to sound scolding. “So was waiting so long to come to me.” He pauses, visibly running through ideas rapidly in his mind. “Your spider was radioactive, yes?”

“Yeah?”

“Okay, then. If you won’t ask Tony, are you willing to ‘bother’ Bruce Banner instead?”

Oh. Right. That actually makes a lot of sense. “I guess, but I don’t really know him?”

“Fortunately for you, I do.”

***

Two days and a battery of tests later, Peter is starting to feel so exhausted it’s hard to drag himself out of bed in the morning, and Dr. Banner—who apparently has a lab in New York and is so incredibly nice Peter wants to apologize for not being into the Hulk as a kid—is stumped.

“I’m not saying it’s impossible,” he explains, giant hand resting gently over Peter’s as they sit across from each other at a large desk, reviewing what Dr. Banner knows so far. “I stabilized myself, I’m sure I could get there with you eventually. But I need to understand how your biology works in incredible detail, and at the rate you’re deteriorating, I’m afraid I’m going to run out of time.”

Because, oh yeah, things seem to have started accelerating in the last week or so. Peter’s bones ache. “Okay, so, what do you need? More blood samples, or…”

“What I need is whatever information Tony has about you. I need his brain.” He fixes Peter with a stern look. This is not the first time they’ve had this conversation. “You have to tell him, or I will.”

Peter’s breath catches. He coughs, lungs burning. That feels like a bad sign. “Isn’t that against HIPPA?”

“Not that kind of doctor, Peter. And I’m not going to let you die because you’re stubborn.” More gently, he adds, “I know it’s scary, but he’ll want to hear it from you, not me. Don’t you think you owe him that?”

***

Peter takes back the thing about Dr. Banner being nice, he decides as he tosses, sleepless and guilty, that night. He’s very, very mean.

He also has a point.

***

He’s going to tell him. First thing in the door. One-hundred percent. He’s been looking so ill May almost forced him to skip this trip, and Happy keeps asking if he’s okay on the ride up, so he probably can’t hide it anyway. Better to rip the Band-Aid off, right?

But then Mr. Stark is there to greet them in the parking lot with a grin like a kid on Christmas, literally bouncing on the balls of his feet as Peter grabs his overnight bag from the trunk. He rambles through a list of activities he has planned for the day as he guides Peter, hand on his lower back, through the new compound and to his private floor. By the time he points out the guest room—“right next door to mine, so try to keep the party down”—Peter’s head is spinning with the enthusiasm of it all. He feels high on borrowed energy.

Fuck telling. He’s getting worse fast, but not so fast that they can’t have one nice day before he ruins it. After everything he’s been through, Mr. Stark deserves that, and Peter can’t bare to snuff out the joy radiating from his eyes.

***

“Impressive, right?” Mr. Stark asks after giving him a tour of the compound gym, if you can call the stadium-sized space a gym. There’s every sort of equipment a super-person could want, including plenty of space to fly—or swing—around. “I was thinking we could train together. I’m a bit rusty and I’ve got several new prototypes for you to try out.”

“Um.” There is absolutely no way Peter can do that without giving himself away immediately. He can’t even remember the last time he tried swinging. It was before coming home, that’s for sure. “Yeah. Maybe later? I really want to see the lab!” 

For the first time, Mr. Stark’s smile falters; his gaze sharpens, giving Peter a questioning once over. But if he’s worried, his tone doesn’t show it as he says, “Alright, Super-Nerd. Let’s see how the ol’ alma mater is shaping bright young minds these days.”

***

Mr. Stark’s hand rests on the back of Peter’s neck as he guides him away from the gym, and stays there, heavy and impossible to ignore, as they make their way through the building. By the time they get to the lab, Peter is buckling under the weight of that touch, almost faint.

Or—or maybe that’s not the touch. Either way, he tries not to let his discomfort onto his face, focusing on everything Mr. Stark is showing him instead. The lab is less a single lab than a whole floor filled with top-of-the-line tech, gleaming and new, though it’s the familiar that really makes Peter giddy. Mr. Stark points out the bots, safe and sound, and a new set of Spider-suits (so many, when did Mr. Stark have time to make so many prototypes?). There’s a separate chemistry lab through another set of doors.

“This is really more for you than me,” Mr. Stark says conversationally, showing him the chem setup. His hand slides to Peter’s shoulder, squeezing. “You’re the chemistry wiz.”

Peter has a sudden memory of sitting in his biochem final with an ache behind his eyes from lack of sleep, the words on the page blurring and dancing. He’s still waiting on his grades, but he’s confident _chemistry wiz_ won’t be what they point to. “Yeah, I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” Mr. Stark says confidently. “And you’re free to come down here whenever you want. I know it’s not very convenient to school, but I can always send the jet. Imagine how much you could get done. Really knock their socks off.”

Wouldn’t that be great? He can imagine it, flying down every week, spending hours lost in science, picking Mr. Stark’s brain for ideas. Then evenings hanging out, reconnecting, enjoying being alive, together, at the same time—

Yeah, right. If he has the energy to go back next semester, it will definitely be to scrape by, not dazzle anyone.

Some of what he’s feeling must show on his face, because Mr. Stark adds, “You look upset. Why do you look upset? Do you think I’m implying you can’t knock their socks off without my help? I’m sure you can. One-hundred percent positive. No one believes in you more than I do.”

Peter swallows the urge to cry. “I think May would fight you about that.”

Mr. Stark laughs, looking relieved, as if Peter joking is proof he’s okay. “You know she scares me, so I’ll settle for second place.” His fingers graze down Peter’s arm as he considers him. “I’d say you should stay and play in here, but I’m selfish and all my stuff is on the other side of the wall. So, want to see Captain America’s new wings instead?”

“Uh, _yeah_.” His body is begging him to sit down and do nothing for an hour, but Peter’s enthusiasm is real. “Those things are awesome!”

“Just wait until you see the version I built,” Mr. Stark brags. Completely unnecessarily, his hand returns to Peter’s back, pushing him toward the door. “Total upgrade.”

***

It goes well until it doesn’t.

They slip into an easy rapport, Mr. Stark explaining the mechanics of the new wings, guiding Peter in placing each metal feather with precision. Peter was always nimble at this stuff, helpful, and old patterns return like they never missed a beat; Mr. Stark runs through rapid-fire instructions, Peter responds with ease.

Old patterns, but also new, because Peter is sure Mr. Stark didn’t used to touch him so much. He was always casual about it, not hesitating to grab Peter’s arm or curve his fingers just so when demonstrating how he wanted something done, but this is different: touch that lingers, long and intentional, breath tickling Peter’s ear as he leans in to watch him work, praising and correcting.

If Peter didn’t know better, he would call it flirting. He could call the dancing from the Christmas party flirting, too. Except this is Mr. Stark, and this is him, so that makes no sense. It has to be the post-resurrection thing, that burning desire to be _close_ , to feel every bit of the world under your fingertips.

Peter tells himself it’s Mr. Stark’s newfound inability to be further than a foot away that makes him weak as the day drags on. It’s the attention from someone whose attention he apparently still craves that makes his mouth grow dry and fingers tremble until they sometimes miss their mark.

And then, as he and Mr. Stark are maneuvering one of the wings into place, his arms give out entirely. Only for a moment, but it’s long enough that the wing clatters to the ground; Mr. Stark lets out a yelp, clutching his hand to his chest.

Fuck. Oh fuck. Mr. Stark cut himself on one of the blades. It’s _Peter’s_ fault. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Without thinking, Peter whips off his t-shirt and dashes to Mr. Stark’s side; he uses the shirt to wrap the wound, ignoring Mr. Stark’s confused protests. He can fix this, he fucked up, he _has_ to fix this.

The whole thing takes less than thirty seconds, and then it’s done: the bleeding contained, the shock over, both of them panting. Mr. Stark stares at Peter with an expression of pure disbelief.

“I—have a first aid kit,” he stammers, waving his t-shirt bandaged hand. “Not that I don’t appreciate the assist.” He tilts his head, wincing. “If you were someone else, I’d say I also appreciate the view.”

Peter looks down at himself, taking in his shirtless state and suddenly feels very silly and also rather exposed. _If he was someone else_. See? He knew it wasn’t flirting. “Yeah, I—sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Looking at this situation now, I see I overreacted.” Mr. Stark’s gaze still hasn’t left his skin, and it’s starting to affect him in ways that might become a little too obvious if this doesn’t get fixed soon. “I can go change.”

“As much as I’m sure the staff would appreciate you walking through the compound half naked, no need.” Mr. Stark gestures with his good hand at a large cabinet. “I have some extra shirts in there. Take your pick. And bring me the first aid kit while you’re at it.” At least he’s smiling as he adds, “I feel like I need to talk to someone at MIT about what kind of lab safety techniques they’re teaching over there.”

***

Peter picks an AC/DC t-shirt that hangs large on his frame, gaping at the collar. It probably looks ridiculous, but it’s soft and smells a little like Mr. Stark, and since apparently that’s still a thing that’s very appealing to him—fuck it, he’s wearing the t-shirt. His time to enjoy small pleasures might be limited.

“Okay,” he says, fishing through the first aid box as he returns to where Mr. Stark is still nursing his wound. “We have disinfectant and gauze, so that should be enough—”

He looks up, and all thoughts cut short, because Mr. Stark is staring at him like he wants to pounce. Peter watches his Adam’s apple ripple; his lips are parted, frozen with a half-formed word. They stand in silence for a few beats into awkward territory before Mr. Stark shakes his head and clears his throat. “Yeah, uh, give me the kit, I’ve got it. And then how about we call it a day, huh? Watch a movie? I’m sure you could tell me the must-sees I’ve missed.”

Peter nods, wordless, brain hurting from the effort of trying to explain what just happened, heart still racing from the heat of it. That looked like—

He lets himself think it: _that looked like Mr. Stark was attracted to him_. The idea settles, squirming and excited, low in his gut. It can’t be right, but it’s also the only way he can piece the evidence altogether, so he clings to it, a sliver of hope in a hopeless moment.

***

He doesn’t change out of the t-shirt even after they get upstairs. Because he still likes the way it smells, and because he likes the way Mr. Stark looks at him in it, that hunger from the lab dulled but not entirely dimmed as they settle onto the couch. A large pizza sits on the coffee table; pepperoni and green peppers, Peter’s favorite. He tries not to read too much into Mr. Stark remembering that.

Mr. Stark bends over, digging under the couch for a moment, then emerges with a bottle of whiskey. He shakes it in Peter’s direction. “Don’t worry, I won’t tattle.”

Last time Peter had whiskey was the Stark Industries party, and he’d literally passed out on a couch. He shakes his head. “I don’t really drink that much.” 

Mr. Stark shrugs and swigs directly from the bottle. Then he offers it again. And, well. Um. Peter accepts it, just for the opportunity to put his lips where those lips had been. They pass the bottle back and forth as they consider their movie options; by the time they settle on a winner, Peter is feeling like he had at the party, lazy and on the edge of floating, comfortable and loose. For the first time, he gets the concept of drowning your problems in booze. 

It’s that comfort that makes him lie back on the couch, sliding down until the leathery arm is the perfect height to play pillow. But it’s something else—the ghost of Mr. Stark’s heated gaze and all that touching, mixed with a little bit of not caring anymore, because he’s drunk and because of things he doesn’t want to think about—that gives him the courage to fling his legs to their full length as the movie starts up. His feet land in Mr. Stark’s lap.

Despite the gaze and the touching and the courage, he’s still surprised when Mr. Stark places his hand on his ankle, firm and sure, and keeps it there until Peter drifts off, movie forgotten. 

***

Peter only half follows what happens next: strong arms under his back, a murmured laugh, the smell of soldering irons and sweat where his face mushes against cotton and hard muscles. Then he’s placed gently onto a bed, and there are fingers at his pants zipper. For a moment he’s sure he’s dreaming, until he registers that Mr. Stark is simply attempting to manhandle him out of his jeans so he can go to sleep.

“I got it,” he attempts to say, vision blurry as he forces himself awake. His fingers flail and fail to land right. Did he really get that drunk? He doesn’t think he had _that_ much, though he did kind of stop paying attention after a while. He gives up, and lets Mr. Stark do the rest of the pants removal.

Then Mr. Stark is gone and Peter is cold, so he wraps himself in the comforter, not quite managing to get under it, but at least getting it around him, like the world’s most misshapen burrito.

“Wow.” Oh. Apparently Mr. Stark is still here. A moment later he comes into view, setting a glass of water on the bedside table before perching on the edge of the bed. He rests his hand on Peter’s forehead, playing with the hair there. “If you can’t get under the covers, I definitely failed in my attempt to allow you to drink _responsibly._ Please don’t hate me for the headache you’re going to have in the morning.”

Peter shakes his head, which is already pounding. “Superpowers,” he mutters. He can feel his grasp on reality slipping with every stroke of Mr. Stark’s fingers through his hair. “No headaches. Won’t hate you.”

“Mmm,” Mr. Stark agrees, and if Peter’s half-gone mind isn’t completely crazy, he sounds delighted as well as amused. “If only it were this easy to get away with all my mistakes.”

Peter’s too tired to respond; so tired he may already be dreaming when he feels Mr. Stark’s lips brush his forehead, the words “get some sleep” whispered across his ear.

***

He does have a headache the next morning, but he doesn’t think it’s because of the alcohol. Not mostly, anyway. The nausea, maybe, but the shaking, the ache in his joints, the bone-deep sense of weakness—he knows that, the familiar shadow of the last few months, amped up another notch, like Dr. Banner said it would be.

Breakfast is a mess. He spills a glass of orange juice. He keeps dropping his fork attempting to eat the pancakes he’s pretty sure Mr. Stark ordered from somewhere, because they taste way too good to be homemade. He can barely work up the energy to respond as Mr. Stark tries to explain his plan for the day, all his concentration focused on not collapsing at the table.

Suddenly, Mr. Stark goes silent, rising from his chair and crossing his arms.

“Okay,” he barks in a tone that startles Peter into sitting straighter, “what the hell is wrong with you?”

“Um.”

Right. Yes. Now is the moment. He’d promised himself he’d tell him. He has to tell him. He _wants_ to tell him, has wanted to, from the very start. Wants to throw himself at his feet and cling to his legs and beg him to make it better. He’s maybe the one person who can. But the words don’t come out: like when he tried to text Doctor Strange but so much worse; he hasn’t felt so helpless since he fell to pieces and died in Mr. Stark’s arms. He doesn’t want to do that again, the dying or the falling to pieces.

He tries, but the words don’t come.

“Kid, I know there’s something going on,” Mr. Stark prods, less harshly. “You haven’t been yourself since you came home. _And_ you stopped patrolling your last few weeks up in Boston. I assumed that was because of finals, but seeing you now…”

“I’m dying,” Peter blurts out; no elegance, no finesse: a single moment of having the guts to throw the truth into the world. He’s trembling worse now, nerves heightening illness heightening nerves. He’s still wearing Mr. Stark’s shirt from last night; he paws at it, twisting the long hem in his fingers as he refuses to meet its owner’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, I should’ve told you sooner, but you just came back and I didn’t want to ruin yesterday and…” _And I’m scared_. But that sounds childish. “And I don’t know what to do.”

Great. That’s not much less pathetic than going ahead and admitting he’s scared. Mr. Stark is staring at him like he’s turned into a Chitauri.

“You’re not dying,” he finally says. Not a question, not disbelief: a statement, fact. As if it’s the most obvious thing in the world that Peter is simply mistaken. “You definitely seem sick, but you’re not dying. That’s—you’re not.”

“Uh, yeah, I am. It’s my powers, my body is rejecting them. At least, I think so, and Doctor Strange and Dr. Banner both agree—”

“The _wizard_ knew about this?” Mr. Stark’s arms unfurl, from crossed to something worse: he rubs his left wrist, a tick Peter remembers from years ago, cowering on a rooftop. His anger now is like that, or like a spaceship years later; furious, and frightened. “Bruce? Are you kidding me? How long.”

“I told them last week,” Peter confesses. He glances at Mr. Stark, afraid to meet his glare head on. It’s like looking at the sun, but more painful.

“And you? How long did you know?”

Well, he didn’t _know_ know until Doctor Strange confirmed it. But that’s not really the question. The question is: how long did he hide it? How long could Mr. Stark have been working on this?

“Longer,” he admits. “I realized at school.”

Mr. Stark grinds his teeth, tensions making his fingers and jaw twitch in time. Then, with a sharp nod, he turns on his heels, bolting toward the door. “I’m going to call Bruce,” he declares. “F.R.I.D.A.Y. will let you know when I need you.”

***

Peter forces down pancakes, then cleans up, nauseous not with alcohol or illness but anxiety. Mr. Stark’s sudden fury still hangs over the room, choking off any thought that tries to wander in a more pleasant direction.

Eventually, he gives up and drags himself back to bed, still exhausted. He’s always so exhausted.

“This is why Mr. Stark is mad at you,” he tells himself as he collapses against the warm pillows, feeling sleep reaching for him when it’s not even eleven in the morning. “You’re an idiot.”

***

He’s startled awake by F.R.I.D.A.Y. alerting him that Mr. Stark is ready for him in the lab.

Peter’s head hurts worse than before he fell asleep. He shuts his eyes against the brightness of his room, trying to recapture what it felt like to have Mr. Stark’s hand on his ankle last night. The burning in his gaze, like maybe he was considering giving Peter something he’s wanted for so long he’s forgotten what it’s like not to want it.

For one night, everything was great. Twelve hours later, here he is, brain pounding against his skull, nothing but a nuisance Mr. Stark has to fix.

He considers going back to sleep and dealing with it all later, but then F.R.I.D.A.Y. adds, “You may wish to hurry. Boss does not seem pleased.”

Peter sighs, forcing himself to sit up. “Yeah, F.R.I.,” he agrees, “no one is pleased right now.”

***

He changes into a new shirt before heading downstairs, because as much as he loves the AC/DC one, it’s getting stale. But beyond that, he doesn’t try. What’s the point? He had one night of Mr. Stark looking at him like he was worth looking at, that will have to do. It was more than he ever thought he’d get.

In the lab, Mr. Stark is pacing; his head jerks up as soon as Peter enters, eyes blazing. He points at a desk that has been cleared, metal glinting with a sterile sort of unpleasantness.

“You, strip to your boxers and sit there,” he says, with a tone that leaves no room for protest.

“Um, what?” Peter protests anyway. “Shouldn’t we, like, talk or something?”

“No.” Even less room for protest. “The time for talking was a month ago when you first figured out something was wrong. Or was that two months ago? Don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. Do you understand how quickly this thing is accelerating? And you let me waste an entire _day_ yesterday? No talking. Strip, sit down, let me examine you.”

Peter wonders what would happen if he kept protesting. Would Mr. Stark throw something at him? Toss him out? That would kind of defeat the point.

But…the point is Mr. Stark wants to save his life, and as much as Peter hates the anger that permeates the room, he also very much wants his life to be saved, so he does as he’s told. At least he managed to pull on a pair of boxers that are relatively new, and don’t have Iron Man on them. He sulks over to the desk and hops onto it, trying not to cringe as the cold metal hits his thighs.

Mr. Stark barely looks at him as he runs scans; the only way Peter knows what’s going on is listening to the instructions he mutters at F.R.I., and the warm buzz of sensors running over his skin. It probably takes fifteen minutes all told, but it feels like forever before Mr. Stark finally looks at him. All the want from last night is gone from his expression, that’s for sure. But, surprisingly, there’s no anger there, either. He looks…lost, like his world has become unhinged.

Peter knows the feeling.

“We’re going to fix this,” Mr. Stark says, not exactly confident, but definitive. He produces a stethoscope out of a drawer. “Can I…?”

Peter nods, and manages not to gasp when Mr. Stark closes the space between them, placing a hand on his chest and the stethoscope at his back. He tells him to breathe. Peter tries.

“Deeper,” Mr. Stark admonishes.

Peter wants to reply that he needs a second. That he’s having a hard time breathing because Mr. Stark’s fingers are on his bare skin, a pinky grazing a nipple. It has nothing to do with his medical condition. Instead, he closes his eyes and follows the direction, taking in as much air as possible, one breath after another. He earns a nod of approval, and hates that it makes something inside him bloom.

“Where’d you get a stethoscope?” he asks as Mr. Stark moves to the other side of his back. Wait, that’s dumb. This is the Avengers compound and Mr. Stark has been down here for hours. There was plenty of time to find basic medical equipment. “Sorry, that’s a stupid question.”

“I’m going to fix this, Pete,” Mr. Stark says, as if he can tell Peter is nervous, but maybe not why. “Breathe again, please.”

And so it goes: like any doctor’s appointment, except Peter hasn’t actually been to a doctor since he got his powers, because they might figure out he’s different. Like with Bruce, except Bruce’s fingers didn’t drag across his skin, hand never quite leaving his body. Nothing like any doctor Peter has ever seen, because Mr. Stark’s breath is hot on his face as he leans in closer than he needs to, telling him to breathe, and breathe, and breathe again. He circles around to his front and crowds him until they’re practically pressed against each other.

Peter squirms, pushing his legs together, trying to hide the evidence of what all this touching and breathing is doing to him. He drops his eyes, only to notice his entire chest has gone red, which kind of makes the repositioning pointless. There’s no way Mr. Stark can’t tell. Besides, he has a stethoscope to Peter’s chest; he can hear his heart hammering. It’s so loud Peter can barely hear anything else, the noise overriding all his senses until he’s nothing but a burning ball of embarrassed arousal. 

“Sir, I—” He doesn’t know how to continue. How to say: _I can’t take this_ or _please save me_ or _you’re what’s killing me right now_. 

Mr. Stark ignores it. “Eyes up, please,” he says, calmly.

Peter glances up, and is immediately assaulted with the light from one of those little things doctors use to look at your eyes, whatever they’re called. He can’t remember; honestly, he can’t really remember anything with Mr. Stark’s other hand at the back of his neck, holding his head firmly in place as he looks from eye to eye.

Then Mr. Stark lowers the light thing, putting it carefully to the side. He doesn’t let go of Peter’s head. Peter feels like he should say something, but all his brains supplies is babbled nonsense. It doesn’t help that Mr. Stark’s stupid eyes are still there, searching his face as if it has answers.

Then suddenly Mr. Stark is kissing him, fierce and possessive.

Holy. _What_?

Mr. Stark’s hand curls at the back of his neck, so tight it almost hurts; the other goes to his hip, pulling him forward. His body is solid, unyielding, forcing Peter’s knees apart by its very presence. Peter doesn’t react fast enough; his erection hits Mr. Stark’s thigh. Mr. Stark groans, rocking forward, as if he likes the feel of Peter rubbing against him.

Repeat: Tony Stark is groaning at the feel of Peter’s dick. While kissing him. What is happening? Is he hallucinating? Is this a total mental break?

The hand on Peter’s hip slips lower, and then— _fuck_ —Mr. Stark grabs him through his boxers, tight. Peter lets out a squeak and not much else, body flooding with need.

“You don’t get to die,” Mr. Stark murmurs against his lips, words snatched between kisses. “We haven’t gotten started yet.”

Peter bucks, unable to stop himself; all he can do is grasp the desk and let his body move, rutting mindlessly into Mr. Stark’s fist. He closes his eyes as if that will stop the world from spinning out of control, but it’s useless. Everything is so hot, and Mr. Stark smells like aftershave and that t-shirt and his beard is so rough against Peter’s chin and, and—

Mr. Stark twists his wrist, moving down Peter’s length at the same time, and it’s all too much, words and movements and the overwhelming everything of him. Peter comes, so startled he doesn’t make a sound, just arches, hips sputtering as his boxers fill with sticky warmth.

Before he can collect his thoughts, before he even opens his eyes, he’s gathered against Mr. Stark’s chest, hidden in the safety of his arms.

“You don’t get to die,” Mr. Stark repeats. “You just don’t.”

Peter lets himself be held, drifting on a wave of hazy pleasure for what must be at least a full minute before forcing himself to pull away. Not far—Mr. Stark’s arms stay wrapped around him, solid and comforting—but enough that he can look him in the face.

“Mr. Stark—” He shrugs, trying in a single movement to capture how lost he is. “What was that?”

Mr. Stark echoes his shrug, then grins, lopsided. It doesn’t reach his eyes, which give the impression of being on the verge of tears. “I can’t lose you.”

That is not clarifying.

“Yeah, but…I didn’t think…” Peter feels pathetic, not able to form a sentence, but in his defense, his mind is starting to clear from the post-orgasm high only to be hit with the reality that Tony Stark just gave him a handjob. It’s a lot to take in. “Since when did you…?”

“Since I saw you at my welcome back dinner,” Mr. Stark says, low, as if it’s a confession. “I don’t know if you’re aware, but, kid, you grew up hot.”

“Is that—” Peter cuts himself off. He is not going to ask, _Is that all this is? I’m hot, so now you want to fuck?_ He’s not going to pile on more neediness when he already needs so much; Mr. Stark is busy saving his life, he doesn’t owe Peter more than that. “Um, okay. Do you like…” He gestures at Mr. Stark’s lower half. “Do you want me to return the favor?”

Instead of answering, Mr. Stark grabs Peter’s wrists, raising his hands until they’re at eye level. “Hold those still.”

Peter tries. He fails. His muscles twitch and tremble, better than than in the lab yesterday, better than this morning, but still there.

“I would love for you to return the favor,” Mr. Stark says. “Then I want to return it back again. I want us to do all sorts of favor swapping. I want—god, Pete, I want all kinds of things I shouldn’t.” He lowers Peter’s wrists and steps back. “But no favor returning while you look like you’re about to pass out. What I want now is for you to go upstairs and rest. I have work to do.”

***

Peter has F.R.I.D.A.Y. put on _Star Wars_. He loves _Star Wars_. It got him through Ben’s death and after the Blip, it should be able to get him through this. But he can’t concentrate, not with Mr. Stark’s scent still clinging to his shirt (which, yes, he could’ve changed along with his pants and underwear but why would he?). Not when his brain is a constant refrain of _holy shit_ and _did that really happen?_ and, most of all, _I should have told him sooner_.

He should have told him sooner, because behind all the kissing and the handjob—the handjob, _holy shit_ —had been something much less enjoyable: desperation. Peter felt it down in the lab, and now, playing the scene over in his head, it’s highlighted, brighter and bolder on every repeat. Mr. Stark may want him—and, _wow_ , file that away for further processing—but he kissed him here, tonight, because he is terrified. He is terrified, because even though he said Peter can’t die, it was closer to a prayer than a statement of fact.

By the time the movie gets to Han shooting first, Peter is practically crawling out of his own body, anxiety running up his skin like little ants. He knew, of course he knew. He’s known, he _knows_. But it’s different with Mr. Stark on the verge of panic. A corner of Peter’s heart had been convinced he’d have the answer. Logically, there was no reason to think that. No reason Mr. Stark would solve it when Dr. Strange and Dr. Banner couldn’t. It’s more their world than his, really. But, but—

But he’s Tony Stark. Peter got over needing him sometime around the moment he took Beck down. He accepted Mr. Stark was gone, that he couldn’t rely on him because he wasn’t there to rely on. He _had_. He’d picked up and moved on, a little more bruised, a bit more broken, but capable. He doesn’t need him anymore, but apparently he never stopped believing in him, like a kid with Santa Clause: Tony Stark will always have the answer.

Except he doesn’t. Peter’s body is falling apart and Mr. Stark doesn’t have the answer. Peter’s dying, and all Mr. Stark could do about it was kiss him and how is that _fair_? And—fuck. He’s actually dying, there’s no one coming to save him. He waited too long, it’s too late, he can’t breathe, he can’t—

 _Fuck_.

He curls his fingers so tight they hurt, repressing a scream, then waves at the TV to pause it. Water. If he just gets a glass of water, he can calm down, he can process, this is fine, he’s freaking out for no reason—

He stumbles his way to the kitchen. It’s not far, thanks to the hip open-layout floor plan he thought was so cool when he first saw it yesterday. The living area was so cool, the compound was so cool. It was all _so cool_ that he’d been swept into fantasy, hadn’t felt the need mention he’s dying. What is wrong with him?

He gets a glass out of the cabinet and immediately drops it. He looks at his hands. They’re trembling, way worse than they had been when Mr. Stark made him look at them an hour ago.

“Sorry,” he says to no one. Well, to F.R.I.D.A.Y., but it’s not like she cares; she won’t be the one who cleans it up. She doesn’t even have a body, which sounds kind of nice right now.

He gets another glass. This time he’s halfway to the sink before it slips through his fingers and just. _Fuck_.

“Fuck,” he says. Then, louder: “ _Fuck_. I— _fuck_.”

He grabs another glass and throws it at the ground, smiling as it shatters with a satisfying tinkle. It almost helps. Not really at all, but a little bit. _Almost_. Almost gets at expressing the absolute roar of emotions buzzing past his ears. How was he this stupid? How did he let it get this far? How did he not realize sooner? How did he not realize he needed help? That Mr. Stark—that he could’ve had—

He could have everything he wants, right now, and he’s dying instead, because he was a scared idiot too stubborn to ask for help.

This time he grabs a plate to hurl at the ground.

“Fuck!” he shouts, as if he’s not inside. As if this is not a perfectly respectable suite in a perfectly respectable Avengers compound. Who cares, who _cares_. He tosses another plate. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ —”

“What’d those plates ever do to you?”

He spins in place to see Mr. Stark striding from the private elevator that connects his suite to the labs, quickly crossing the living room, making his way to the kitchen where Peter—

Where Peter has literally been throwing a temper tantrum like a child. Seriously, what is _wrong_ with him?

“Mr. Stark!” he hears himself say, though it feels muted and echoing, as if he’s listening from far away. He crouches, trying to sweep up the pieces with his hands, like he can cover the evidence of his idiocy in the few seconds left before Mr. Stark is on top of him. “I’m sorry, I—I’ll clean it up, I was being an idi—ouch!” He cut his hand, because of course he did. Doesn’t matter, he’ll heal. “You don’t have to—”

“Hey, hey, kid, _stop_.” Mr. Stark is next to him now, crouched where he is, crowding in his space, pulling at him, trying to get his hands off the floor, trying to stop him, trying to bring him into a hug.

“No,” Peter protests, still scrambling at the shards of broken glass. “I’m sorry, I need to fix it, I’m such and idiot, I—”

Mr. Stark’s lips land on the side of Peter’s head. Peter freezes, breath catching. One moment of stillness, and it’s enough to realize his entire body is shaking, and at some point he started crying. He’s exhausted, he wants to collapse.

He doesn’t collapse, but he does let Mr. Stark pull him to standing, lets himself be wrapped in those strong arms, the same ones that carried him safely to bed. Was that really only last night? It feels like a year ago. He nestles against Mr. Stark’s neck, closes his eyes, and inhales. Suddenly, his entire world is nothing but the person he most wants. It’s too overwhelming to be comforting, but at least it’s something other than pain.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers again and again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” Mr. Stark repeats, as many times as Peter apologizes. “It’s going to be okay. It’s okay, kid. I’ll make it okay.”

Peter’s not talking about the dishes anymore. He doesn’t think Mr. Stark is, either.

***

Once Peter comes down from the high of his outburst, Mr. Stark leads him to the sink and turns it on for him, gently guiding his hands under the warm water, rubbing them with soap to scrub away the blood.

 _I can do it myself_ , Peter wants to say, but he’s not entirely sure that’s true. The little cuts that scatter across his fingers are healing, but even though his heart rate is spinning down to normal his hands still tremble. 

Besides, he doesn’t mind Mr. Stark caressing his skin, turning his hands this way and that until the water stops running red. Finally, apparently satisfied, Mr. Stark turns off the water. He wraps his arms around Peter’s shoulders, pulling him close against his chest, and buries his face in his hair. He inhales, like Peter had been doing to his neck before. On the other side of it, it’s a little weird, and more than a little intimate.

Because apparently that’s what they are now: more than a little intimate. It makes Peter’s stomach flip and twist all at once; too much, right now.

And still, his hands are shaking.

“It’s getting really bad,” he says quietly, a confession. It’s easier to say staring into the sink, with Mr. Stark behind him. “It’s way worse than at school. I didn’t think it would get like this so quickly. I didn’t—”

He can feel himself starting to panic again, so he stops talking. Mr. Stark responds by kissing his temple. “Relax,” he whispers. As if he can tell Peter is spiraling. As if he can see right through him. Apparently he can. After all, he knew something was wrong.

Peter swivels in Mr. Stark’s arms so they’re facing each other. He takes a deep breath, then looks him in the eyes. He deserves honesty, after Peter wasn’t honest for so long. “Mr. Stark, I’m really scared.”

Mr. Stark’s bottom lip twitches, like maybe it’s trying to tremble but he won’t let it.

“Confession, kid? Me too.” He sweeps a stray strand of hair off Peter’s forehead, considering him. “But I’ve got a secret that I think will make you feel better.”

“Yeah?” That doesn’t seem very likely. “What’s that?”

“I do all my best work scared shitless.” He bends forward, brushing his lips across Peter’s, barely. It’s heartbreakingly tender, and does things to Peter even the handjob hadn’t done. “Okay, kid, let’s get you into bed. I’ve got work to do, and my supply of dishware isn’t endless.”

***

Out of sheer force of will, Peter knuckles his way through most of the basics of getting ready for bed by himself. He has to hold his toothbrush in his fist like he’s five years old so it doesn’t tumble out of his hands, but fuck if he’s going to ask for help brushing his teeth.

Getting into pajamas, on the other hand? Not so much. After his second attempt to get his shirt over his head fails, he admits defeat.

If he’s being honest, he doesn’t hate having Mr. Stark undress him instead. Doesn’t hate having his fingers skim up his side as he pulls off his shirt. Doesn’t hate being close. He wishes they could be closer, actually, but after helping him out of his pants—and very pointedly leaving him in his boxers—Mr. Stark stands and clears his throat. He’s almost awkward, if Tony Stark being awkward were a plausible thing.

Peter’s not sure how this is supposed to go. Beyond some fumbling with MJ, he hasn’t exactly had a lot of experience, what with his first semester at college being spectacularly derailed. Maybe awkwardness after is part of the thing. He doesn’t want that, though. He looks up at Mr. Stark, a question on his lips, but he can’t articulate what the question _is_.

“You good?” Mr. Stark asks, and it’s so absurd Peter wants to laugh. No, he is not _good_. Tony Stark gave him a handjob a few hours ago and yet he is so far from good he has no idea how to put it in words. Those facts make no sense together, and yet, this is his life. For now.

Since he has no idea how to say any of that, he doesn’t. Instead, he tries, “You aren’t going to stay?”

Mr. Stark answers with the saddest attempt at a smile Peter has ever seen. He runs his hand through Peter’s hair. It’s clearly supposed to be comforting, and it is, almost. It also makes him yearn for more—makes him want to cry because how, _how_ is this happening _now_?

“I told you, Pete, I have work to do.” His hand drifts from Peter’s hair down to his face, cupping his cheek. “See, there’s this person I care about who’s in trouble.”

Peter’s breath hitches, though he honestly has no idea if he’s holding back a laugh or a sob. _This person I care about_. That sounds like maybe this is more than Mr. Stark thinking Peter is hot, now. Like maybe—

Maybe.

“Right. Yeah, uh, I guess you should get on that. That person sounds pretty important.”

Mr. Stark leans down and kisses him, not rough and rushed like in the lab, but deeper than in the kitchen. A real kiss, warm and wet and promising more: not now, but in the future. It’s a kiss that promises him a future.

A lie, then.

“Trust me,” Mr. Stark whispers when it’s over. “This person is really important. What’s also important is he get some sleep.”

“Fine,” Peter agrees, even though it’s not fine; all he wants is for Mr. Stark to stay and hold him. He considers going for another kiss, but the idea of initiating is too crazy to contemplate, even with the taste of Mr. Stark fresh on his tongue. He slides back into bed, pulling the blanket up. “Bye, then.”

Another kiss on his forehead, and Mr. Stark is gone.

Peter expects his jumbling thoughts to keep him awake, but as soon as F.R.I. turns off the lights his exhaustion beats out even the insanity of his day; his brain shuts down before he can begin to sort out his feelings.

***

Peter wakes up ten hours later. Ten hours of sleep, and he still feels like shit. He groans, groggy and nauseous and plain tired. Always so fucking tired. He’s tired of being tired. Tired of having to drag himself up. Tired of this whole situation.

He wants to call Mr. Stark and tell him he gives up. Just, forget it. Can’t they spend the day kissing—or more? Doing something that’s actually _fun_?

But he knows how that conversation would go. It would be the opposite of fun. So even though he’s sick of it, he drags himself out of bed and into the shower. He stops to look at himself in the fogged mirror after. He doesn’t look like someone who hooked up with their lifelong crush for the first time yesterday. There’s no room for joy and excitement in the dull of his eyes.

“Mr. Stark kissed me,” he says to his reflection, but it doesn’t help. It’s not like the first time he said he was dying: it doesn’t feel more real out loud. The opposite, actually. He tries to smile; it looks like a grimace. “Yeah,” he tells the distorted mask of his own face staring back at him. “Exactly.”

***

In the kitchen is a box of Cheerios and a note saying Mr. Stark is in the lab. At least Peter’s hands are shaking a bit less—he only makes a minor mess pouring the cereal. He looks for milk but doesn’t find any, because of course Mr. Stark is missing basics like that. He settles for eating the cereal dry, washing down flavorless bites with a glass of water.

“F.R.I., can you make sure he at least has Honey-Nut flavor next time?” he requests, before realizing that presumes there will be a next time. A time far enough in the future that the shelves will be restocked.

It’s a big presumption. A big, probably incorrect assumption.

Suddenly, he’s not hungry anymore. He puts his half-eaten bowl in the sink, unsure of what to do next. Should he go check on Mr. Stark’s progress, or wait patiently up here?

“How long has he been down there?” he asks, looking at the ceiling.

There’s definitely a hint of disapproval in F.R.I.’s tone as she replies, “Since five in the morning.”

“Wait, seriously? When did he sleep?”

“He didn’t.”

Oh, great. So now Peter has guilt to grapple with on top of everything else. Yeah, he should definitely check on Mr. Stark.

***

He’s not sure what he expects when he gets to the lab. For Mr. Stark to have a cure in hand? For him to stop and pull Peter into another hug, another kiss—any acknowledgement of the night before?

Yeah, either of those would be nice.

Instead, what he gets is Mr. Stark barely glancing in his direction. Just a gruff, “Oh, good, you’re up. Come here, I need another blood sample.”

Peter walks over to where Mr. Stark bends over a desk. He extends his arm, heart jumping, because Mr. Stark is about to touch him. But there’s nothing intimate about the way he does it: quick, efficient, no lingering. For a moment, Peter honestly wonders if he dreamed the entire day before. That would be…a bad sign.

But then Mr. Stark grabs his hand, squeezing it. When he meets Peter’s eyes, his are full of something that feels like longing.

“Can—can I help?” Peter hears himself ask, without remembering making the choice to say the words. It’s hard to think about anything but Mr. Stark’s hand in his.

“Stay alive,” Mr. Stark replies, and his voice is rough, underlined with emotions Peter can’t place. “That would help.”

 _Dark_ , Peter doesn’t say. It’s also fair. “I mean, other than that?”

Mr. Stark considers him for a few moments, and then nods. He drops his hand and gestures at an empty computer bay. “Go through Bruce’s research again. Maybe there’s something I’ve missed.”

***

If there’s something Mr. Stark has missed, Peter isn’t smart enough to see it. Definitely not now, with his brain working on half power, and half of what’s left occupied by a constant buzz of worry and wonder and _what the actual fuck_. He tries, he really does, but it takes him ten minutes to get through every page; he barely feels like he’s processing, let alone making connections or spotting new directions.

It doesn’t help that the energy in the lab is off. Tense, sour, a little frantic, Mr. Stark muttering to himself and snapping at the bots. Peter hears him call Dum-E a useless hunk of junk about five times in one half-hour spree, and there’s more bite to the insults than usual. The poor thing wilts like a kicked puppy.

“You know, it’s not his fault,” Peter says as the bot whines at Mr. Stark’s latest insult.

That was a mistake, because Mr. Stark immediately directs his irritation at Peter instead, head rolling to fix him with an accusing glare. “No, you’re right, it’s yours. You were a scared child, and now I’m stuck racing against a clock. So thank you, Peter. Really excellent work.”

It’s like a slap, like the rug pulled out from under him, like the entire world spinning. He feels tears well in his eyes, and hates himself for how hurt he is. How much _more_ it hurts now, after—

After he’d been stupid enough to think something had changed between them. 

He blinks rapidly. It must be obvious that he’s upset, but Mr. Stark’s expression doesn’t soften. He raises an eyebrow, challenging.

“I’m not a child,” Peter says, quietly. Obviously he’s not. That, at least, he thought had been established.

That gets a reaction out of Mr. Stark, but it doesn’t make him softer. His jaw clenches, muscle working.

“No, you’re right, you’re not,” he spits, and it’s even more venomous than before. “You’re just an idiot. And a coward. Is that better?”

Peter springs to his feet with such force his stool hurtles to the ground; its crash reverberates through the lab. His instinct is to run away, to go somewhere private, to curl up in a ball and cry, but that would prove Mr. Stark right—that he’s immature, a coward. He won’t do that. He refuses to be cowed. He _knows_ he messed up, but—but—it’s his life. He’s the one who’s suffering the most from his mistake, here.

He stalks forward, so angry he can almost feel the adrenaline rushing through his veins. Mr. Stark is still sitting on his stool, and when Peter stops in front of him their relative positions leave Peter a little taller. He uses the advantage to glare down, crossing his arms.

“That’s not fair, Mr. Stark. It’s not fair to be mean to me right now. Not after—” He swallows, not quite able to make the words. “Not when I’m the one who’s dying.”

The word sits there, an accusation, an acknowledgment, insistent: he’s dying, and they have to face it. He can see the effect it has on Mr. Stark’s body; he hunches, ready for an attack.

“You’re not,” he says. “Peter, you’re not dying.”

“I _am_.” Peter’s surprised to find he feels a little better, standing here, chest heaving with emotion. Maybe it’s saying the obvious truth out loud, maybe it’s simply a momentary reprieve. Whatever the case, he likes it. It feels good to feel better, feels good to be so close to Mr. Stark he can practically taste him, the sense-memory of their lips pressing together still fresh. “I’m dying, and you want me. Right?”

Peter feels like he’s won something when Mr. Stark’s hands come to his hips, fingers curling into his belt loops, tugging him a little closer. His expression doesn’t soften, exactly, but there’s something other than frustration and anger there when he replies, “You’re not going to die, but I do want you.”

“And I want you. Which I’m assuming you know because of the, ah—because of yesterday. And apparently you knew I had a crush on you when I was sixteen and, I mean, you’re _you_ so…” He’s getting off track. “I don’t really understand how _you_ could want me and like, maybe it’s just a sex thing or whatever, and maybe if things were different I would care, but they aren’t, so I don’t. All I care about is that I kind of feel okay right now and I really want you to kiss me while I can still enjoy it.”

He can see Mr. Stark thinking about it—really thinking, eyes darting over his face, like during the exam yesterday. As if Peter has answers hidden under his skin.

He can see the moment he stops thinking, too. His eyes darken, and then he’s standing and Peter is pinned against the desk, surprised gasp cut off by a kiss. 

***

This time, after Mr. Stark makes him come with little more than a thigh shoved between his legs, Peter says, “Don’t stop. I can keep going.”

Mr. Stark pulls back, eyes doing that searching thing again. “Are you sure?”

Yeah, he’s sure. He’s so sure. He almost says, _Please, sir, I don’t want to die a virgin_ , but that might scare Mr. Stark off, so he keeps the thought to himself.

“I’m really sure,” he says instead. “Please. This is the best I’ve felt—” Well, since yesterday. Turns out orgasms will do that for you. “I feel good. Please, Mr. Stark. I just want to feel good for a little while.”

More searching, then the barest nod.

“It’s not just a sex thing,” Mr. Stark says, before sinking his teeth into the spot where Peter’s neck meets his shoulder.

“Wha—what?” He’s literally not following, too lost in the pain and pleasure of it to connect the words to meaning, dick hardening for the second time in minutes.

“You. This.” Mr. Stark’s hands slip under Peter’s shirt, spreading across his skin, squeezing, clutching, possessive. His lips move to his ear. “You said it might just be sex. It’s not. I don’t know what it is, but it’s not just sex.”

“Oh.” Except it doesn’t matter what Mr. Stark thinks this might be, because they literally don’t have time left for it to turn into anything more. And yet, Peter can’t help asking, “You don’t know?”

More information is useless when put up against his impending death, but he wants it anyway, almost as bad as he wants Mr. Stark’s hands to never leave his body.

Mr. Stark stops his assault on Peter’s neck long enough to draw back and look him in the eye. “I was planning on taking it slow, actually. I was going to do it right, Pete. Feel it out, see what this might be, find out if you were even interested. Hell, I had date ideas. Written down. Me! Historically, not my strong suit.”

He leans away, reaching into the nearest drawer. Improbably, he emerges a second later with a bottle of lube. Peter briefly wonders how many of those he has scattered around the lab. Also, uh, who else might he be using them with? No. Wait. That line of thought is going nowhere good. Shut it down.

“I’m interested,” he breathes, heart pounding. It feels like flying. “Very interested. And I don’t want to take it slow.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Stark agrees. He places the lube on the desk next to Peter, like a promise. His hands go to his own belt. “It’s a little late for slow.”

A little late because he already went from zero to handjob, or a little late because Peter doesn’t have time to take it slow?

Peter’s not sure why he’s even asking himself the question. It’s the same thing. The handjob happened because he has no time. This is happening because he has no time. He pushes that thought down, too, because it’s even worse than wondering why Mr. Stark has lube scattered through the lab.

As he starts to pull his pants down, eager and inelegant, he tells himself: it doesn’t matter why this is happening, what matters is it _is_ happening.

***

When Mr. Stark presses into him minutes later, after desperate, sloppy prep, Peter can almost believe his own lie. Tony Stark is inside him, and that’s what matters. Not why, only the fact of it. 

***

When he comes, and comes again as Mr. Stark pounds into him, fingers tight on his hips and moans low in his ear, he forgets, for a moment, what else possibly could matter.

***

When Mr. Stark goes still behind him, coming with Peter’s name on his lips, he forgets to think at all.

***

It’s only coming down from the high, panting and ecstatic, sweaty cheek pressed to Mr. Stark’s chest, that Peter notices: he felt amazing the whole time. He looks up, grinning at the relief of not being in pain, even just for this moment.

“I feel great,” he says. He sounds as hazy and blissed out as he feels. “Thank you.”

Mr. Stark’s eyes do the searching thing again, dancing over his face. Then suddenly he smiles: big, real, genuine. It reaches his eyes.

“Adrenaline,” he says.

Peter blinks, fuzzy. “Huh?”

Mr. Stark steps back, pulling his boxers and pants back on. He’s still wearing his shirt; they were so rushed he never got it off. Peter belatedly realizes he didn’t even get a good look at his dick. Another thing he’s not sure he’ll ever have time to correct.

“Parker, focus up.” Mr. Stark snaps in front of Peter’s face. Which, rude. “Pay attention. You were patrolling less at school, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” Actually, now that he’s attempting to focus up, um, how does Mr. Stark even know that? “Were you tracking my suit?”

Mr. Stark waives the question off, which is definitely a yes. “Not important. Here’s what’s important: did that start before or after you started feeling sick?”

There’s a fire in Mr. Stark’s eyes that makes something under Peter’s skin burn with hope, so he decides to save the conversation about privacy violations for another time. “I mean, I definitely patrolled less and less the worse I felt. I didn’t stop entirely until the last few weeks…”

“Right. But, before that. Think of it like this: in high school, you patrolled almost every day. For hours. Week in and week out. Did that change?”

Oh. Oh wait. Peter thinks he sees where this is going. “Yeah, I promised May I’d cut back. Only three times a week for the first semester, and honestly, with adjusting and getting used to Boston and everything, sometimes it was only twice…”

“And, having been a brilliant nerd at MIT myself, I think I can safely assume you weren’t doing any sports, either?”

Peter feels like he should be insulted, but he nods, because he’s not wrong.

Mr. Stark is pacing now, hands flailing a little as he talks it through. “So, you go to college. You cut back on the superhero gig. You start feeling a little off. You cut back more. You feel worse. Am I getting anything wrong yet?”

“No, no, that’s right.”

“You feel worse, less patrolling, and on and on. Until no patrolling at all, and you are completely falling apart. But then I come along. I make the kinds of decisions that most people would call ill-advised but I call brilliant because—wham! Here you are, feeling better for a second.”

“I felt better even before the sex,” Peter realizes. “When you yelled at me and I got angry. I felt better.”

“Adrenaline,” Mr. Stark says again. “I don’t know how, yet, but that has to be the key.” Then he leans forward and kisses Peter, deep and long. “Okay, we need to call Bruce. Right now.”

***

It turns out when you put Tony Stark, Bruce Banner, Stephen Strange—and, after an hour, Helen Cho—on the same problem with the spark of the right idea, they can get things solved pretty quickly.

Well, not _that_ quickly. Peter eventually drifts off on the lab couch; it’s three in the morning when Mr. Stark shakes him awake. Without any preface, he injects him with a blue liquid that burns up his arm, but in a kind of nice way. Warm.

“That’s temporary,” Mr. Stark explains. “To keep you from getting worse. Tomorrow, we go see Bruce and Helen. They think they can get to a permanent solution before you have to go back to school.”

Peter feels himself smile. It’s like coming up to breathe. But, stabilized or not, he is still very tired. Unfiltered, not thinking, he reaches for Mr. Stark. He means to be grabbing for an arm to help him stand, but Mr. Stark scoops him up entirely, one arm around his shoulders, the other under his knee. Like the night with the movie, but this time Peter doesn’t hesitate to wrap his arms around Mr. Stark’s neck, snuggling close.

“I like this,” he says. A bit of Mr. Stark’s collarbone is exposed; Peter kisses it, because he thinks maybe that’s allowed. “Thank you, I knew you’d figure it out.”

“Go back to sleep, Pete,” Mr. Stark whispers. He sounds amused, and very fond. “We’ll celebrate tomorrow.”

***

Peter is so tired he drifts in Mr. Stark’s arms, and only half wakes when he’s placed in bed.

“Stay,” he manages to whisper before slipping off again.

When a warm body tucks in next to his, he’s not sure if it’s a dream.

***

When Peter rolls over the next morning, he runs smack into a hard body. It takes him a second to orient. When he does, he processes that Mr. Stark is on top of the blankets, dressed in jeans and another of his endless band t-shirts. Did he actually stay last night, or did Peter make that up? Not that it really matters. He’s here now, that’s what matters.

“Hi,” Peter says. It feels inadequate, but it’s the best he can do.

“Your vitals are looking better,” Mr. Stark says. “How’re you feeling?”

Peter takes a moment to actually answer the question for himself, sinking into his body. He’s sore, and tired, but the tiredness feels more surface level—sleepiness seeps under his skin, but doesn’t quite get to his bones. He doesn’t feel weighed down anymore.

“Better, yeah. Not amazing, but definitely better.”

“Good.”

And then there’s silence. Peter wonders if Mr. Stark is going to roll forward to kiss him, but he doesn’t, and the longer he doesn’t, the more the space between then seems to grow until it becomes pointed.

Mr. Stark said it wasn’t just sex, but that doesn’t mean it wasn’t just desperation.

“So, now what?” Peter finally asks.

“Well, your aunt called wondering when you’re going to be home tonight.”

“Oh, right.” In the roller coaster of his world shifting on its axis—more than once—Peter had lost track of time. Had lost track, a little, of what this was supposed to be: a normal stay at the Avengers compound. Lab and fun and then back home. Not his life in the balance. Not his life turned inside out, either.

“So,” Mr. Stark continues, brisk, so businesslike it stings a little, “I figure, we get up, boogie back to New York—Happy’s already on his way, car should be here in an hour—swing by Bruce’s lab. He does his thing, bada bing, bada boom, we have you home for dinner, May’s none the wiser unless you want her to be. I’ll stay in the city to work with Bruce and Helen. We’ll all be in one place, great minds doing our thing, and if we need you, you’ll be one borough over.”

He ends this cascade of information with a flourish of his hand, as if he wants Peter to be impressed with all his planning. Which he is, kinda. It’s a good plan, and it answers the _now what_ of Peter’s condition. It’s just—that wasn’t the _now what_ he was really interested in. But it seems really rude to be disappointed about someone explaining how they plan to save your life, so he nods solemnly, as if Mr. Stark told him exactly what he was looking to hear.

“That makes sense. And I’m sure I can get Ned to cover for me if I need to come in to the lab. Or maybe I should tell May.” At least now he’d be giving her good news, and he does really hate lying to her. “I should probably tell May. Should I tell May?”

“Probably,” Mr. Stark agrees. “But don’t look to me for guidance on that. When the arc reactor was killing me I didn’t tell _anyone_. Nick Fury had to sweep in and rescue my ass. Fury! He never let me forget it.”

“Wait, _what_?” This is definitely news. “What do you mean, when the arc reactor was killing you?”

Mr. Stark shrugs, self-deprecating. It’s impossibly charming. “Yeah, that’s a whole story. Ask me again sometime when we’re not in a rush.”

“But—but—” Peter tries to put his thoughts in order. It’s hard when Mr. Stark is inches away, eyes so big he could drown in them. “You were so mad at me for not telling you sooner. And now you’re saying you did the same thing?”

“No one has ever accused me of being rational.” Mr. Stark’s hand finds Peter’s waist, resting gently. “I am sorry about yelling. Let me make it up to you.”

That…that definitely feels like flirting. Can you flirt when you’re already in bed together? When you maybe spent the night together? It seems like yes. Peter feels his face heating. “Make it up like how?”

The hand skates down his side, then up again, ducking under his shirt. “I told you, I have a whole list of date ideas going to waste. Maybe I can take you on one if you can sneak away from your scary aunt for a night?”

 _Date_.

Tony Stark wants to take him on a date. Like, for real. That wasn’t a lie he said in the rush of passion and fear and uncertainty. He has a list. A list he made _before_ he realized Peter was dying.

Holy crap. He’s serious about this.

“Really?” Peter pauses. He almost doesn’t want to press, in case the whole fantasy comes tumbling down. But if he can face dying, he can face asking, “You really want to do that? It’s not just like, guilt or something? Because you saved my life, Mr. Stark, so you really don’t owe me anything.”

Mr. Stark’s hand curls to hold Peter’s side, thumb brushing at his hipbone. It’s distracting. “I really want to do that, kid.”

“I—” Peter tries to find words for his reaction, fails. “Wow.”

“Is _wow_ good? Wow sounds good, but you’re being a little cryptic. Help an old man out.”

Peter nods, firm. Dizzy with it. “Yeah, wow is good. Wow is really good. Wow is the best. This is just—kind of a lot?”

“I know.” Mr. Stark seems to melt a little, going soft. He rolls forward, and suddenly he’s on top of Peter, framing him safe between his arms. “That’s why I wanted to go slow, but _someone_ went and scared me so bad I couldn’t think straight.”

“Sorry,” Peter whispers. “I didn’t mean to.”

“I forgive you,” Mr. Stark says. “Just don’t do it again.” And then he finally, finally kisses him again: long, deep, inviting. “Is this too much?”

“No,” Peter murmurs, pulling him closer. “It’s not enough. You said we have an hour right?”

Mr. Stark nods. “Plus, we can make Happy wait. He gets so huffy when he’s annoyed. ‘I’m not your driver anymore, Tony.’ It’s funny, we should make him wait.”

Peter laughs, and it feels like being truly alive for the first time in months. He’s going to be okay. Better than okay. Way, way better than okay.

“Let’s make him wait,” he agrees. For the first time, he initiates the kiss, because, yeah, that’s totally something he gets to do. “We have a lot to celebrate.”

**Author's Note:**

> As always, feedback is loved <3
> 
> Originally posted anon because of an exchange. Re-dated with my name on it, sorry if you've seen it before!


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